


Necessary Roughness

by Gemmiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:42:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemmiel/pseuds/Gemmiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As long as it's rough, Dean can tell himself it doesn't mean anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Necessary Roughness

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after 9.13, with Sam and Dean having parted ways again. Based (with permission) on a Tumblr post by Teachmestuffdean.
> 
> Some references to "King Midas in Reverse," by the Hollies.

He _needs_ this.

Sex has always been a safety valve for Dean Winchester, a way of blowing off steam when the pressure gets to be too much. He has other ways of managing stress—driving too fast, watching _Dr. Sexy,_ imbibing copious amounts of alcohol—but when everything gets to be too much and it all boils over inside of him, nothing beats a good hard fuck.

Which is why he’d been on the prowl tonight, looking for a casual encounter that would take his mind off what happened out there today, how he screwed up, how he almost lost—

Fuck it. He shrugs off the memories, because he’s not thinking about that now. He’s not. He’s busy, damn it. Busy trying to lose himself in a warm body.

That’s all this is, a way to blow off his stress and his anger at himself. There’s nothing sappy going on here at all, no emotional connection, and certainly no love, damn it. 

Sex has nothing to do with emotions and affection and all that bullshit, not for him. It can’t, now that he’s decided he’s poison, that he has to keep his distance from anyone and everyone. But that’s okay, because he isn’t into romance anyway, and never has been. Sex has never been a romantic thing for him. It’s just about stress reduction. Sort of like yoga, only more fun.

And no one could mistake this for an emotional encounter, anyway. It’s rough, frantic, almost violent. Mouths clashing together, hands tearing at clothing, lips pressing everywhere and teeth nipping at skin. It’s erotic, yeah, but it’s sure as hell not romantic. 

The two of them have been leaning against the wall of a motel room, hands all over each other, breathing heavily, moaning, cursing softly. But now their clothes are off, scattered everywhere, and by tacit agreement they stagger toward the bed, and fall into it.

Dean’s on top. He prefers it that way. He likes controlling everything, likes to be the boss. But even though he’s on top, he’s not quite in control quite as much as he wants to be. Lately, he feels like King Midas in reverse, like everything he's ever touched is crumbling into dust. He was already reeling from splitting up with his brother for the second time in three weeks, because the two of them just can't seem to get along any more. And then there was what almost happened earlier today, on that goddamned hunt...

The point is, there's a hell of a lot of stress still lurking at the back of his brain. No matter how much he tries to drown the memory in hot kisses and warm skin and the smooth glide of a body against his, it just won’t go _away,_ damn it.

Their bare bodies press together, the heat building between them, and he wants to do more than this, wants so much more. He wants to sink inside, deep inside, wants to take what he needs, fast and hard. It has to be hard, fast, and violent, because otherwise he’s afraid it’s going to turn into something it shouldn’t, something sweet and tender and gentle. And that’s not safe, because he's poison, and can't allow himself to be truly intimate with anyone.

But despite what he tells himself, their kisses are growing softer, slower, and there’s an unmistakable sweetness between them now. He hears a rough, desperate sound rise from his throat, and hopes it sounds more like a noise of sexual desire than the sob it really is. 

Fuck. _Fuck._ He’s not crying during sex. Of all the girly things to do. He’s friggin' Dean Winchester, and he doesn’t _do_ emotions, damn it.

He knows he only lost control of himself and his responses because he let things get too gentle. This is another reason why he needs roughness, needs this to be impersonal, fast, _fierce._ He yanks his mouth away with a muttered curse, lowers his head, and nips at all the exposed skin he can reach, throat and ear and shoulder. His partner moans, a low, sensual sound, and the tone of the encounter shifts between them, becoming rough and urgent again. Need swells inside Dean, making his cock harder than ever. 

He craves release, craves it so badly he's shaking with the need. There’s too much surging inside of him, rage at himself and fury at the goddamned monster who almost killed them both this afternoon, and a terrible, aching pain at the knowledge of what he’d almost lost. He needs to come, to lose himself in the heat and pleasure of orgasm, to let a climax relax his body and dim his mind for a little while.

Abruptly he finds himself on his back, hot lips trailing down his chest and abdomen, and he throws an arm over his face—he’s not crying, damn it, he’s _not_ —and murmurs soft encouragement. _Yeah, that’s it, hell yeah, put your pretty mouth right there and suck it, oh yeah, **fuck…**_

He’s never had anyone turn him on so quickly, so completely, with a blow job. He’s lost already, hands tangling in thick hair, his hips thrusting upward eagerly, while his cock sinks into a hot, sweet mouth. He swears luridly, and his fingers dig into the dark, rumpled hair so hard it’s got to hurt. Sweat breaks out on his skin, and he imagines himself coming between those lush lips, shooting right down that throat, and he groans and shudders and struggles to hold back.

He doesn’t want it to be over yet, damn it. It’s just sex, no different from any other sexual encounter he’s had, and yet… oh God, he doesn’t _ever_ want it to be over.

But that mouth is amazingly talented, relentless, and it takes him almost to the pinnacle before releasing him. Thwarted in his instinctive drive toward orgasm, Dean falls back against the crumpled, sweaty sheets with a gasp, his chest rising and falling in frantic heaves. 

And then the bed shifts as his partner moves up his body, and he’s being kissed softly, tenderly. He opens his mouth and lets himself be kissed deeply, heedless of the taste of his own precome. Hell, maybe he kind of likes the taste of it, the reminder that those beautiful full lips were all over him, doing something so dirty, so crude, so filthy…

But the kisses they share now aren’t dirty, but gentle and tender. Dean wants to shift the tone of this, to make things hard and rough again, but somehow he can’t. Their bodies are gliding together now, stroking against each other, wet and slick and hot. _Intimate._ Damn it, this is why he wanted things to be rough and impersonal between them, so he didn't feel anything, so he didn't _care._

But he can't stop himself from caring. He needs to come, needs it more than he’s ever needed anything, _aches_ for it, but he can’t keep pretending that this is meaningless, ordinary sex with a stranger, because it’s not. It’s so much more than that.

They kiss, more deeply than before, and run gentle, affectionate hands over each other’s bodies, exploring slowly, tenderly, and Dean strokes the damp hair and breathes in the scent of sex and sweat and skin. His cock pulses urgently, desperate for release, and he shoves up eagerly against his partner, struggling to hold his orgasm back despite the delicious friction, trying to make this last forever. But in the end, the touches and the kisses and the soft murmurs of his name are too much for him. 

“Cas,” he whispers, and lets the ecstasy sweep over him.

His cock spills its release all over Cas’ abdomen, hot and sweet and intense. The knowledge that he’s coming all over an angel of the Lord, sullying a flawless, sinless being, makes him shudder harder than before. He ought to be ashamed, but instead he’s incredibly turned on. He buries his face in Cas’ neck, trying to smother his wild sounds of pleasure, but not succeeding too well. 

Castiel doesn’t even try to hold back his responses. He cries out sharply, and Dean feels his cock twitching too, feels Cas coming in long, hot bursts, all over Dean. Ordinarily that might squick him out, but right now it’s the sexiest thing ever. He holds Cas close, while the angel groans and gasps and makes very unangelic sounds of pleasure. 

At last Cas relaxes onto him, completely sated, sweaty and sticky, and a lot heavier than Dean ever imagined he’d be. Dean grunts, shoves a little, and manages to get Cas to roll off him, to the side. They lie there in the darkness, panting heavily, arms wrapped around one another. 

Dean Winchester doesn’t cuddle after sex. Ever. And yet somehow he’s not at all motivated to get up and move to the other bed. 

Despite the double load of come drying all over them both, despite the scent of sex hanging heavy in the room, despite the sweaty and crumpled sheets, he’s never felt so warmly content. He thinks he could lie here forever.

“Are you all right?” Cas’ voice is even deeper than usual, and filled with concern.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and realizes to his surprise that it’s true. Well, maybe he’s not all right, but better than he was, for sure. “I’m good.”

“You were… upset by what happened this afternoon.” Displaying his growing sense of tact, Cas doesn’t mention the tears still streaking Dean's cheeks. 

“I know. It’s just—well, this whole thing with Sammy has me a little fucked up in the head." His voice wobbles despite himself. "And then... I haven’t seen you in weeks, and the first time you come to join me in a hunt, you almost get yourself offed by an angel blade. Damn it. I told you before, Cas, I’m—"

“Dean. Stop it. You are not poison.”

Dean growls softly. “I almost got you killed, Cas. I misread the situation. I thought that we were dealing with a demon, not a psycho angel, and—"

“I’ve told you this before, Dean. You need to understand that everything is not your fault. I misjudged the situation just as much as you did. And besides, you saved me. You killed Leliel before she could kill me.” 

“I was almost too late.”

“You were just in time. Just as you always are.” Cas holds him a little closer. “You are not poison, Dean Winchester. Quite the opposite, in fact. My association with you has changed me for the better, and over the years, you have saved my life numerous times. As you did today.”

Dean sighs, and presses his face into Cas’ shoulder, surreptitiously brushing the tears away. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says softly. “You and me, I mean. After we killed that angel, I thought you'd left again. And I went to that bar to find—"

“A harlot,” Cas says with stern angelic disapproval.

“Don’t go all Old Testament on me, man. Just because women like sex, that doesn’t make ‘em harlots. Hell, you seem to like sex pretty well yourself, but that doesn’t make you a harlot, either.” 

Cas accepts the reproof with uncharacteristic meekness. “I suppose you are right. Seeking out sex is a very human trait, and even though I am no longer human, I seem to have retained some human impulses. When I saw you with that—"

“Don’t call her a harlot, damn it.”

“…young woman,” Cas continues smoothly, “I felt an impulse to interrupt.”

“Yeah, I noticed. And once you got me outside, you felt an impulse to grab me and kiss me.”

“I have felt that impulse before,” Cas says in a matter-of-fact tone, making Dean's cheeks heat. He'd never quite dared to hope Cas felt that way about him before tonight. “But never as strongly as I did this time. I believe… I believe I may have experienced jealousy. I always thought it was a completely negative emotion, but I now see that it can be a powerful motivating force.”

“Never thought of it that way.” Dean yawns. He needs to get up and shower, or at least grab a washcloth and clean the two of them off, but damn it, he doesn’t want to. He feels good, for the first time in a long while. He feels…

Well, _happy_ is a big word he’s not sure he’s ready to use. But he’s warm and content and satiated, and happiness feels like it’s right around the corner, if only he can work up the nerve to chase after it. Of course, there's still the whole thing with Sam, and being on the outs with his brother makes him feel like crap, but he thinks maybe he can handle it a little better if Cas sticks around. He might even be able to work things out with Sam if Cas stands besides him and helps them both through it.

He doesn't like to admit it-- he doesn't like to admit dependence on anyone-- but he always feels a lot better when Cas is nearby. Of course, even with Cas around, he's never going to turn everything he touches into gold, but if he could just stop turning it all into dust..

Cas waves a hand at their intertwined bodies, and suddenly they’re clean. Dean yawns again, feeling warmer and more contented than before, and doesn’t object when Cas pulls him closer. He still worries he’s poison, that he's destined to destroy everything and everyone in his life, but right now he’s just too blissed out to stress about it.

Anyway, he did save Cas, so maybe he’s not quite as bad as he thinks. Or maybe Cas is just a sort of antidote, the one thing that can stop him from destroying everything he touches.

It's a comforting thought, and warmed by it, he drifts off to sleep in Cas' arms.


End file.
